


Fireside

by Jennie_D



Series: Becoming New [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship, Wildling Culture & Customs, Wildling Jon Snow, Wildlings - Freeform, free folk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-23 18:08:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20344438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennie_D/pseuds/Jennie_D
Summary: It quickly became clear to Jon how important the Free Folk found stories and songs by the fireside.Jon had heard many songs sung by drunken groups in feast halls, had heard many stories told around a lonely cookfire to pass the hours until dawn.But he’d never experienced anything close to this.





	Fireside

It quickly became clear to Jon how important the Free Folk found stories and songs by the fireside.

He’d remembered this from his first time running with them; remembered how Ygritte had told the tale of Bael the Bard as they roasted a deer she’d shot. How she had later sung Bael’s songs to Jon under their furs, her voice whisper soft against his ear.

And Jon remembered the first time he heard Tormund spin one of his stories, only a few nights before they’d climbed the Wall. Tormund’s tales then were mostly ridiculous exaggerations of his own life that made their small band laugh. Jon still laughed thinking on some of them. Tormund might swear it till the sun burned out, but Jon would never truly believe that his friend had fucked a bear.

But now, traveling with such a large group, in a band that seemed less a few travelers than a moving town, the weight of these fireside stories and songs became ever more obvious. Every night people would gather near the flickering flames to speak, sing, listen. Some nights there seemed to be a hundred different fires, a different bard at each one. Other nights, a giant bonfire would be lit, and huge cheerful groups would gather around it.

Jon was coming to look forward to these bonfire nights. In his years, Jon had heard many songs sung by drunken groups in feast halls, had heard many stories told around a lonely cookfire to pass the hours until dawn. But he’d never experienced anything close to this.

For the Free Folk sang songs with complex haunting harmonies Jon had never heard the like of, songs that seemed to curve and echo into his ears. These songs were not just sung by one bard, but shared across hundreds of voices, and made the night air itself into a living breathing melody.

They would listen to stories led by tellers with booming voices that carried long and strong across the ice. The tales were often communal as well. A simple call from the storyteller could prompt a response from the crowd that built a momentum, created a rhythm. And Jon would feel in his bones these were not simply stories, but collective memories the Free Folk could all touch and feel and taste.

These stories and songs almost seemed to hold a kind of magic. They made Jon think back to being a boy at Winterfell, of feeling awed by bards at a feast or captivated by Old Nan’s tales. Made him think of telling tales to Arya when she’d been small, of marveling at the joy he saw dancing in her eyes. It made him desperately homesick for that place, that time. Jon thought he’d lost the ability to feel that childish wonder long ago. But shivers of it would run through him now every time he sat fireside to listen. It made him wish he was truly part of _this_.

For _this_ was more than simple entertainment in the dark, more than a way to pass the time. These songs and stories felt old and strange and glorious. They were _history_, history of who the Free Folk were and how they came to be. They were lessons too, how to hunt, how to fight, how to work together as one. Some were so ancient they had been passed down from the First Men themselves.

Others were so new Jon recognized the names of people involved.

Once, he’d been listening to a song about a Crow who became a man and saved the Free Folk, and halfway through he’d suddenly realized the song was about him. Jon’s face had flooded with heat, and the fire had suddenly seemed too large, and he could almost feel blood pooling under his fingers. He hadn’t left the fireside for fear of seeming rude, and had thanked the singers afterwards. But then he’d fled and emptied his stomach behind a tree in the darkness.

Jon had returned to his tent alone and spent several hours drinking quietly, nuzzling into Ghost. When Tormund had joined him and asked him what upset him so, Jon had struggled to put his feelings into words. He didn’t deserve to have heroic stories and songs written for him. He was no hero. Not after what he’d let happen. Not after what he’d done.

Tormund had sat patiently beside him and rubbed his shoulders and listened. He’d held Jon in silence for a long time. And then he’d said that he understood what Jon felt, understood why he didn’t wish to be made a legend. But still, the Free Folk saw him as a hero, for without him they likely would not have survived the dead. And unfortunately, that meant he would likely feature in a good many of their tales.

“But I can try to make them stop if you want me to,” Tormund had said softly. And Jon had considered it. In truth, he’d almost be happy to let any lofty memory of his name or deeds vanish into the winter winds. Let “Jon Snow” be forgotten. Yet somehow it seemed worse to make this into an issue and draw more attention to himself.

Tormund had squeezed at his shoulder and Jon had leant into his warmth, savoring comfort where he could find it.

Eventually, Tormund said softly that if Jon was ever ready to hear it, he would be proud to tell the story of “his little crow” by the bonfire himself. "After all, I think you'd make a grand hero." And though Jon was truly horrified that anyone would tell tales of him, he almost wanted to hear how it would sound on Tormund’s lips.

For Jon had learned that Tormund was a truly gifted storyteller. Yes, on some level Jon already knew this. After all, Tormund had made Jon laugh half a hundred times with quips and tales and jokes, and he was always the most boisterous man in a room.

But in front of a large crowd by the fire, Tormund somehow became even more _alive_. His voice would take on a strange entrancing tone that held Jon spellbound. He created immense shadows with his hands that stretched across the firelight. Sometimes he would harness the flames themselves to aid the tale; memorably Tormund had once kicked a log in a dramatic moment and created a huge shower of sparks that danced in the darkness. Jon could watch him for hours. Up there, with hundreds hanging on his every word, Tormund looked _beautiful._

It was enough to make Jon want to contribute himself. Sitting in silence made him feel even more an outsider than he already was. But he still felt unsure even in the audience. He didn’t want to add to the harmonies for worry his poor voice would ruin the songs. In call and response stories, he often felt lost, like he lacked the instinct that told all the others _when_ to say _what_. And as for telling a story himself...well Jon was certain he was no storyteller.

Once, while hiking through the snow, he aired these worries to Tormund. It was a simple problem, far easier than discussing larger concerns, like how the Free Folk would eat this winter or where they would settle or any of the horrors of the past few months.

But Tormund took this simple problem surprisingly seriously. He’d looked at Jon strangely and asked, “Who told you had a poor voice?”

Jon shrugged. “I just know I do, not sure who told me first. Likely it was Septa Mordane. When I was a child, she was always telling me to quiet down and just mouth the words during hymns.”

Tormund’s eyebrows drew together and he spat on the ground. “What would some southern god worshipper know about music? Songs for their fancy gods all sound like slow farts escaping from my arse.”

A smile bit at Jon's lips. Songs for the Seven did tend to drag a bit. “Aye, my sister Arya used to say much the same. Though less farts were involved in her read of it.”

Tormund snorted, and Jon grinned as he continued.

“Still, the septa wasn’t wrong about my voice. And I still feel I’d make a poor storyteller.”

“Your voice would be part of a whole, little crow, and I doubt it’s foul enough to ruin the efforts of so many others. As for telling a story, no one will force you, but people will listen if you ever decide to spin a tale.”

“But what would I even say? No one will like stories of vicious creatures to the far North or Starks defeating Kings Beyond the Wall, but that’s most of what I grew up with. Those are the only stories I know.”

Tormund chuckled a bit. “You’ve lived a hell of a life. Met more people and seen more things than most would in ten lifetimes. I’m sure you could think of something.”

A shadow came over Jon, and he stared at the ground below him, thinking on some of the worst things he’d seen. Tormund noticed his sudden sullenness, and put a hand to Jon’s black clad shoulder, stopping him. Eventually, Jon managed to drag his eyes up to meet Tomund’s. They were soft, kind.

“I’m sorry, little crow. You shouldn’t put your mind to the past if you’re not ready for it. You’re one of us already, if you want to be. You don’t need to prove anything with stories or songs. Just listen. Enjoy them. Be with us.”

This soothed something in Jon’s chest. He nodded once, then broke Tormund’s gaze, almost embarrassed that the redhead might glimpse the gratefulness in his eyes. Tormund gave him a solid pat on the back, and they continued forward.

And so instead of worrying, Jon tried to listen and enjoy. Tried to soak up those nights by the bonfire, let that odd feeling of awe wash over him.

He began to sing the low parts of songs to himself as he walked. Soon, he sang them to Tormund and Ghost at night in their tent. Ghost often attempted to howl along with Jon’s subpar singing, and Tormund would smile fondly and declare their voices grand.

And soon after that, he found the courage to join in with the low part of the harmony around the evening fire. He found he didn’t ruin the song, and it felt freeing to finally add his voice and sing as one with the others. Tormund had grinned incessantly at Jon for two full days after.

Jon began to respond with the group during stories, to repeat words and chant and hiss and cheer. It was difficult to define a moment when he knew the responses and could follow along, but he supposed he’d simply learned from listening. Truthfully, it made the tales seem like even greater fun, seem even more alive.

But as for telling a tale himself, he still hesitated. What should he speak of? The tales of his youth which claimed the Free Folk as enemies? Old stories from further south filled with dragons Jon never wanted to think on? Or maybe he should speak from his own life as Tormund had suggested. He could speak about the Watch that hated him, the North he’d betrayed, the Free Folk he’d failed to save, the horrors he’d done in the south. No. No, he could not, _would never,_ weave tales from such things.

Jon thought again of Winterfell, of home. Of the battles that had raged there. In his mind Jon saw Arya, a child asking for a story from him after Old Nan told her to go to bed. He saw her again as a woman grown, fighting on the battlements, courage in her eyes.

It seemed unfair that the Free Folk should judge him as such a hero. Not only because of the awful things he’d done. But because so many others had fought. Fought so hard to save them all from the cold death of ice.

So about four months after Jon left Castle Black, when his shiny old boots had been replaced by durable hide that stood out light amongst his black leathers, he sat by a small fire. He watched it crack and spark and dance in the evening light. He squeezed Tormund’s hand as he sat down beside him, and began to speak. With each word his soft voice grew stronger, more sure. And he began to spin his tale.

_“Let me tell you the life of the warrior Arya, who slew the King of Night and saved all the world…”_


End file.
